Black Winter's Ice
by Sr.MichaelBucket
Summary: The black winter is the coldest and somber of them all. It eats at the body with frost's infection and eats at the mind with the hunger of a zombie. Only few brave it's vice grip.
1. Chapter 1

The cold had set in sooner than they all expected. The wind bellowed over the valley and leaked into any building so unfortunate to be at the crest. There would be no snow. There never was, but it was surely cold enough for such weather. The largest building in the valley, a factory so long abandoned of its normal functions, sat somber and towering above the cabins near by. The windows were boarded and broken and some doors ripped from their hinges. The front door was in tact, but still in rather poor shape. It was still, save for the single spider web swaying in the wind. Even the riffle barrel jutting slightly from the window was still as death.

His eyes were focused and didn't blink in so long a time that many might think they didn't. He ignored everything. He ignored the sheer cold blowing in under his thin coat. He ignored the rain licking at his flesh from the gap in the window, and he ignored the pain in his stomach that roared at him, screaming for food. He hadn't eaten in three days, having been camping out in the building for about that many. He was conditioned to take such neglect, but his body still thought it had privilege to pester him at inopportune times.

Then, is body tensed. His eyes squinted down the scope of his riffle and he pressed his finger softly to the trigger. Three beats past like years, the wind the only sound aside from his racing heart. Then, he squeezed the trigger. A shattering blast broke into the November wind, carried off in the thunder. He'd been counting the beats. He'd been watching the sky... and his victim who fell limp to the dirt in a spray of blood. People crowded around the dead body like flies to a rotted steak. The marksman smiled, pleased with his work, then picked up his weapon and left.


	2. Chapter 2

"He died in the hospital this morning. I'm glad to hear it." The marksman glared across the table where his feet were propped. He was not too fond of idle praise. He was here for one reason and wanted that reason addressed. The other whom sat in the darkness peered out with an aggravated sigh. "Aye, but you don't care, do you?" The marksman leaned over the table.

"I want the money and you'd best 'ave it, need I take ya head as compensation. I don't work for a charity." He sat back, running his hand over the barrel of his riffle, his feet rested, again, on the table. His employer growled and reached under the table, pulling out a duffel bag and tossing it nearly atop of the sniper's feet. The marksman didn't move. He didn't even go to look at the bag. "Open it and dump it all out on the table," he commanded. His employer unzipped the bag and emptied it of its contents. He didn't mind to count it. There was a great amount. He cared about the bag. "Turn it inside-out."

"This is ridiculous, Mr. Mundy-"

"Do it."

"I don't see-" The sniper launched himself over the table, taking the man by his collar. His face was so close to the other that he was sure that the other could smell his last cigarette.

"Do it or I snap ye neck right 'ere!" He didn't let go. The other man took hold of the bag, hands shaking as he fiddled blindly with it. Once it was inside-out, he dropped it on the table. There was a loud clack. "And what is that?" The man was sweating now. His face was burning a pained red.

"I don't-"

"Don't give me that rubbish! What the bloody 'ell is it?"

"I swear I don't know! They told me to get it to you!"

"What? Was this as set up? Did you just 'ire me to kill an innocent man?"

"No, I swear. They contacted me when they heard I hired you. They told me to get that thing to you or else. I didn't ask what it was or what 'or else' meant for me. I'm not a fighter. I can't hide from people. I did as I was asked! Please, don't hurt me!" The marksman tossed the man to the floor. He grabbed as much of the money as he could carry in his pant pockets and vest, then turned. He snatched his riffle from the side of the table before storming off into the rain. He was drowned out entirely with in minutes. The man got up off the floor. He peered into the storm with a heavy sigh. Then, a french accent came from his mouth, speaking like a Spaniard just moments before. "Well played, Bushman."


End file.
